Aftereffects
by Ashley A
Summary: Angel ponders his current state of affairs, and the two women he loves. ATS season five.


A/N:  set during ATS season five.  Spoilers up through BTVS: Chosen and ATS: Life of the Party.  Angel ponders his current state of affairs and the two woman he loves. 

Disclaimer:  Nope, still don't own anybody.  Joss Whedon, ME, UPN, Fox, WB, etc. own Buffy and Angel.  **Sob.**

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.

Enjoy!

            They both cry out at the same moment, passion and the heat of the instant sweeping over the lovers at the same time.  Their foreheads touch, sweat comingling, until their breathing slows.  As the dark haired woman smiles, the man begins to frown, a feeling in his gut, not unfamiliar, not welcome either, beginning to tug at him.

            His expression is suddenly one of horror, and he gasps out the first words that come to mind.

            "Buffy?  Oh, God."

            He springs awake, the same dream he's been having for weeks now rousing him in the pre dawn hours. Do the rest of them even remember it?  Should they?  He hasn't had the guts to find out.

            "You know how prophecies turn out.  I mean come on, Wesley- the father will kill the son?"

            "What are you talking about?"

            So that little bit had been forgotten.  And Angel hadn't thought to look, but he wonders if the scar on Wesley's neck is still there.  What do they think happened last year?  

            The reawaking of his alter ego was always in the back of his mind, but none of them had ever mentioned any of the events to him again.  Not since that day, that nightmare day in the sporting goods store, and the fight, and the death.  And the rebirth.  Let's not forget that.  Of course, they kind of had to in order to make the spell work.

            And Jesus.  Cordelia.  He still dreams of their one encounter that never actually took place.  And remembers again and again his reaction after making love to her…the only reaction he could have had.

            "Buffy?  Oh, God."

            It's interesting, and a bit horrifying to him to think back on that daydream the shaman had given him.  And how little it had taken to make him perfectly happy.  Defeating the beast, his son happy at his side, his crew getting along, and last but certainly not least, the final expression of his love for Cordelia, the woman who had brought him so much joy and heartache and many days of laughter, and the one thing he thought of as his soul was ripped away from him again was another woman, a golden warrior he had had only once, well, twice, _but goddamnit I can't count that time, _and the pain he had caused her as well.

            The pain he had inflicted; he had taken her innocence and her devotion to him and had stepped on it like unwelcome vermin.

            And God help him, as important as Cordy was, no, is to him, thoughts of Buffy had flitted through even Angelus' mind as he had awakened.

            She's first.  She'll always be first.  And that thought is the one that disturbs him the most.

            He sits on the edge of his monstrous bed in his new high rise penthouse, the sun and it's damaging rays blocked from his view by dark velvet curtains.  

            When will she wake up?  _And what the hell am I going to tell her?_

            He steps into the walk in shower, one of the blessings of his new position.  At his core Angel isn't a vain man; but God bless the person who invented massaging shower heads. 

            He ducks his head under the steaming jet of water, and lets it pour down his back, soaking his body in heat, trying desperately to wash away the feel of the dream/memory, and squeezes his eyes shut.  The bricks that make up the shower walls condensate immediately, and he places his hands against them, cool to the touch, a welcome contrast to the heat of the water.

            The last time he had tried to take a relaxing shower, that bitch Eve had been in his room when he had finished.  He'd taken care of that quickly enough, although the latter part of that day is another thing he'd like to forget.  Lorne and his damn spells, never working out right.  The one he'd tried with all of them, the one that had reverted them to their teen personas, had worked out so right.  Yeah.  And once again, bad things had happened, and he and Cordy had never gotten the chance to work out their complicated feelings for one another.

            She'd changed so much over the six plus years he'd known her, that when he discovered he'd developed feelings for her beyond those of friendship, he honestly hadn't been that surprised.  Although he doesn't think now that he would have acted on them had Fred not kept talking about 'kyrumption' and 'moira' or whatever she had said.  But then again, he's not sure.  

            When he visits her now in the suite Wolfram and Hart  has set her up in, when he stares at her kind face and imagines her eyes opening, he tries to come up with a set of words that won't shock her, or give away anything she might not remember.  Lilah had never said anything about Cordy beyond information about her medical care, about what she might have remembered, or not.  She had already been in her coma state when Angel had done the spell on Connor.

            He holds her hand, and prays that just once, she'll look up at him when he talks to her, or squeeze his hand, or anything.  But it hasn't happened.  And so he's left with unrequited feelings, and confusion and pain.  Yet again.

            And then there's that other day, the one after he had gone to see Connor with his new family.

            The one where he traveled to Sunnydale, and had found his old love battling for her life, and had tried to help her.  Turned out she didn't need his help, not in the way he had expected.

            Her kiss had taken him by surprise, but he had welcomed it, and had flashed back at that moment when her lips had met his, to the first time he had kissed her, and how it had felt like magic, like fate, like inevitability.

            And then that conversation in the graveyard, and her confession that no, Spike wasn't her boyfriend, but yes, he was in her heart.  And his soul had sunk to the pit of his stomach at her words. 

            Well, he had told her to move on.  But he hadn't really meant it in his heart of hearts.

            _Don't you love me?  You said forever.  And I meant it too._

            So she had asked him to leave, to start readying the second front.  And she had come after him as well, and told him, yes, sometimes I do think that far ahead.  And she had given him some hope.  They were a matched pair, after all.  No one knows him like she does.  

Except not so much anymore.  And not as much as the brunette who sleeps like the dead down the hall.

He stays in the shower til the water turns tepid, and finally shuts it off, before his skin can prune up.

He shakes the droplets out of his hair, and exits, wrapping a towel around his waist.  He reenters his bedroom, half afraid Eve will be sitting there again, and he sighs in relief when she's not.

He dresses slowly, pulling on underwear, undershirt, socks, and finally pants and sweater, wincing slightly when he realizes he's adopted his old look, the one of all black and the sweater that Cordy had given him last Christmas.

He has received one letter from Buffy since she had left Sunnydale in ruins.  

_Angel,_

_Doing okay.  Spending time with Giles and his family in England for a few weeks while deciding what to do.  Dawn seems to like it here, so we may stay for a while._

_I'm glad to hear you're okay, and even more glad you didn't have to use that second front after all._

_I promise a visit as soon as I return to the states._

_Or come see us if you decide you need a vacation from that awful law firm.  You have some serious explaining to do, pal._

_…there's a lot more I need to tell you, but I'd rather tell you face to face._

_Take care of yourself, okay?_

_Love, _

_Buffy_

Seeing her sprawling, loopy handwriting had caused a hitch in his chest that had nothing to do with the activity that had been buzzing around his office at the time he had received the letter.

He hasn't had the heart, or the desire really, to contact her to tell her about Spike.  Was it pettiness?  Or just something inside of him that wants to keep the knowledge from her, in case she decided to fly back immediately to see the other man?

He really doesn't want to find out if that's the case, because if she did, it might mean she has feelings for the other vampire that Angel just doesn't want to deal with right now.

And secretly, he feels that having her so far away right now is kind of a good thing.  Because when she's around, he can't concentrate on Cordy, or his feelings for her, and what the hell they mean.

He pulls the drapes at the window, and the sun streams in, his body not bursting into flames due to the necro tempered glass coating his windows courtesy of his new employers.

As he rests his forehead on the glass, his cell phone begins to ring, but he ignores it, taking a minute to not think about Wolfram and Hart, or Buffy, or Cordy, or his lost son, or Darla, or anybody.

He finally picks it up on the 20th ring, figuring it's got to be really important, otherwise there's going to be one pissed off and broody boss at the office shortly.

"What," he answers.

"Angel, it's Gunn.  You need to get to the office now."

Gunn's voice, usually so poised and confident, especially after his mind altering surgery, is wavering and young.  Angel is immediately worried.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing really.  It's just…you need to come in.  Now."

"Gunn, stop the theatrics and tell me what the problem is."

"She's awake."

A cold shiver snakes down Angel's spine; and although he asks, "She?" he knows exactly who Gunn is talking about.

"Get here, now," is all Gunn says, and the connection is suddenly gone.

Angel slips on his leather duster, and approaches the elevator that leads to the lower floors and his office.

His outwardly calm demeanor is a great front; one he's perfected over his many years of existance.

All his weeks of dreams, and hours of agonizing over what to say have been for naught, because all he can think of again are three words, and what they mean for his future and the future of the woman who has finally opened her eyes downstairs.

"Buffy?  Oh, God."

Fin. 


End file.
